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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第153章

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prove  this  slander  true。  I  say  ”slander‘  because  I  don’t  believe  in  what  my 
brother Elegant said about the book and the last picture。 Even then; I would 
hear nothing against your late Enishte。 I found it quite appropriate that Our 
Sultan  turn  his  favors  from  Master  Osman  to  Enishte  Effendi;  and  I  even 
believed;  if  not  to  the  same  degree;  what  Enishte  described  to  me  at  length 
about the Frankish masters and their artistry。 I used to believe quite sincerely 
that we Ottoman artists could fortably take from this or that aspect of the 
Frankish methods as much as our hearts desired or as much as could be seen 
during a visit abroad—without bartering with the Devil or bringing any great 
harm upon us。 Life was easy; your Enishte; may he rest in peace; had succeeded 
Master Osman; and was a new father to me in this new life。“ 
“Let’s  not  discuss  that  point  yet;”  said  Black。  “First  describe  how  you 
murdered Elegant。” 
“This  deed;”  I  said;  recognizing  that  I  couldn’t  use  the  word  “murder;”  “I 
mitted this deed not only for us; to save us; but for the salvation of the 
entire workshop。 Elegant Effendi knew he posed a powerful threat。 I prayed to 
Almighty God; begging him to give me a sign showing me how despicable this 
scoundrel really was。 My prayers were answered when I offered Elegant money。 
God  had  shown  me  how  wretched  he  really  was。  These  gold  pieces  came  to 
mind; but by divine inspiration; I lied。 I said the gold pieces weren’t here in 
the lodge; but I’d hidden them elsewhere。 We went out。 I walked him through 
empty  streets  and  out…of…the…way  neighborhoods  without  any  consideration 
for where we were going。 I had no idea what I would do; and in short; I was 
afraid。 At the end of our wandering; after we’d e to a street we’d passed 
earlier;  our  brother  Elegant  Effendi  the  gilder;  who  devoted  his  entire  life  to 
form and repetition; grew suspicious。 But God provided me with an empty lot 
ravaged by fire; and nearby; a dry well。” 
At this point I knew I couldn’t go on and I told them so。 “If you were in my 
shoes; you would’ve considered the salvation of your artist brethren and done 
the same thing;” I said confidently。 
When I heard them agree with me; I felt like crying。 I was going to say it 
was because their passion; which I hardly deserved; softened my heart; but 
no。 I was going to say it was because I again heard the thud of his body hitting 
the bottom of the well wherein I dropped him after killing him; but no。 I was 
going to say it was because I remembered how happy I was before being a 
427 
 
murderer; how I’d been like everybody else; but no。 The blind man who used 
to  pass  through  our  neighborhood  in  my  childhood  appeared  in  my  mind’s 
eye: He’d take a dirty metal water dipper out of his even dirtier clothes; and 
would  call  out  to  us  neighborhood  kids  who  watched  him  from  a  distance; 
there  by  the  local  water  fountain;  “My  children;  which  of  you  will  fill  this 
blind old man’s drinking cup with water from the fountain?” When no one 
went to his aid; he’d say; “It’d be a good turn; my children; a pious deed!” The 
color of his irises had faded and they were nearly the same color as the whites 
of his eyes。 
Agitated by the thought of resembling that blind old man; I confessed how 
I  did  away  with  Enishte  Effendi  hurriedly;  without  savoring  any  of  it。  I  was 
neither   too   honest   nor   too   insincere   with   them:   I   found   a   medium 
consistency;  such  that  the  story  wouldn’t  trouble  my  heart  too  much;  and 
they’d be assured I hadn’t gone to Enishte’s house to murder him。 I wanted 
to  make  clear  that  it  wasn’t  a  premeditated  murder;  which  intent  they 
gathered  when  I  reminded  them  of  the  following  while  trying  to  absolve 
myself: “Without harboring bad intentions; one never goes to Hell。” 
“After   surrendering   Elegant   Effendi   to   the   Angels   of   Allah;”   I   said 
thoughtfully; “what the dearly departed expressed to me in his last moments 
started to gnaw at me like a worm。 Having caused me to bloody my hands; the 
final painting loomed larger in my mind; and so; resolving to see it; I went to 
your Enishte; who no longer summoned any of us to his house。 Not only did 
he  refuse  to  reveal  the  painting;  he  behaved  as  if  nothing  were  the  matter。 
There was; he sniffled; neither a painting nor anything else so mysterious that 
it called for murder! To preempt further humiliation; and to get his attention; I 
thereupon confessed that I was the one who killed Elegant Effendi and tossed 
him  into  a  well。  Yes;  then  he  took  me  more  seriously;  but  he  continued  to 
humiliate  me  all  the  same。  How  could  a  man  who  humiliates  his  son  be  a 
father? Great Master Osman would bee irate with us; he’d beat us; but he 
never  once  humiliated  us。  Oh  my  brothers;  we’ve  made  a  grave  mistake  by 
betraying him。” 
I  smiled  at  my  brethren  whose  attention  was  focused  upon  my  eyes; 
listening to me as though I lay on my deathbed。 Just as a dying man would; I 
saw them growing increasingly blurry and moving away from me。 
“I  murdered  your  Enishte  for  two  reasons。  First;  because  he  shamelessly 
forced  the  great  Master  Osman  into  aping  the  Veian  artist;  Sebastiano。 
Second;  because  in  a  moment  of  weakness;  I  lowered  myself  to  ask  him 
whether I had a style of my own。” 
428 
 
“How did he respond?” 
“It seems I am possessed of a style。 But ing from him; of course; this 
was not an insult。 I remembered wondering; in my shame; if this were indeed 
praise:  I  considered  style  to  be  a  variety  of  rootlessness  and  dishonor;  but 
doubt was eating at me。 I wanted nothing to do with style; but the Devil was 
tempting me and I was; furthermore; curious。” 
“Everybody secretly desires to have a style;” said Black smartly。 “Everybody 
also desires to have his portrait made; just as Our Sultan did。” 
“Is this affliction impossible to resist?” I said。 “As this plague spreads; none 
of us will be able to stand against the methods of the Europeans。” 
No one was listening to me; however。 Black was recounting the story of a 
sad  Turkmen  chieftain  who  was  sent  off  on  a  twelve…year  exile  to  China 
because  he’d  prematurely  expressed  his  love  for  the  daughter  of  the  shah。 
Since  he  didn’t  have  a  portrait  of  his  beloved;  of  whom  he  dreamed  for  a 
dozen  years;  he  forgot  her  face  amid  the  Chinese  beauties;  and  his  lovelorn 
suffering was transformed into a profound trial willed by Allah。 
“Thanks  to  your  Enishte;  we’ve  all  learned  the  meaning  of  ”portrait;“”  I 
said。 “God willing; one day; we’ll fearlessly tell the story of our own lives the 
way we actually live them。” 
“All fables are everybody’s fables;” said Black。 
“All illumination is God’s illumination too;” I said; pleting the verse by 
the  poet  Hatifi  of  Herat。  “But  as  t
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